


British Racing Green

by StarsAndStitches



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Greg rides a motorbike, Gregcroft, M/M, Mycroft drives a Jaguar, Mystrade Prompt Challenge, October Prompt Challenge, Thank you Mottlemoth!!!, Tumblr Mystrade Prompt Challenge October 2018, Tumblr Prompt, Young Greg, Young Mycroft, Young Mycroft Holmes/Young Greg Lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 08:39:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16472276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsAndStitches/pseuds/StarsAndStitches
Summary: For the Mystrade Prompt Challenge October 2018:Your dialogue: “Listen... you and me...”The circumstances: while on the road, on a summer morningA chance encounter of two young men on the road – will their lives ever be the same?





	1. Chase

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to the Mystrade Prompt Challenge October 2018 on Tumblr. Many many thanks to the fabulous Mottlemoth for organising this great event! I chose this prompt from the “Easy” category to try my hand with a bit of Mystrade AU. A tale from the salad days of their youth; Mycroft is 19 or 20 here, Greg a couple of years older.
> 
> Originally planned to be short one-shot, but you know how it is with fictional characters – they've got a mind of their own sometimes, insisting on playing it out in colourful detail, so what am I to do about it? And the story grew from humble beginnings to a full three-chapter beast. 
> 
> In case you're wondering where the dialogue prompt is; it is roughly in the middle of chapter 3 highlighted in **bold**.
> 
> The rating is T for most of the story but goes up with the final chapter when things get more... heated.
> 
> Once again my heartfelt gratitude to the fabulous [TheSoupDragon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSoupDragon/pseuds/TheSoupDragon), beta-reader extraordinaire, guardian angel protecting me from the pitfalls of un-Britishness that I may fall victim to, and all around the best friend a person could wish for. (Du bist ein Schatz! ) If you haven't yet read her Mystrade Prompt Challenge story [“Making-Up is a Dish Best Served Cold”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16406198), please go ahead and do so. It's great!
> 
> All remaining errors are my own, and as I am not a native speaker I'm sure there will be some. Please feel free to point anything out to me that you think should be corrected. You can also find me on Tumblr @starsandstitches.
> 
> Enjoy reading! ♥ ♥ ♥

There he was again! A quick glance into the rear mirror of his Jaguar assured Mycroft that his... companion... had climbed the hillside and was now catching up with him. The silhouette of the motorcycle was growing slowly, as was Mycroft's amused smile.

How serendipitous that he had left his parents' home early this morning. The clear June sky – as bright as it got in England – had enticed him, the perfect opportunity to take his convertible for a joyride. With the roof folded back, he genuinely enjoyed the sun on his face and the wind in his hair. The pleasant purring of the engine right under his hands resonated through his soul. Besides, he had an hour and a half to spare before he had to pick up Sherlock at the train station. Ample time to indulge in such frivolous capers.

The motorcyclist apparently wasn't in a hurry either. He had captured Mycroft's attention some twenty minutes ago, and now they were play-chasing each other on the nearly empty country roads. Something about the young man in a leather jacket on a motorcycle had tickled Mycroft's fancy when he overtook him for the first time. He couldn't see much of the other's face, though, as the man was wearing an open-face helmet to protect his skull and a crimson bandanna covering the lower part of his face – all the more left to Mycroft's lively imagination. The broad shoulders, however, were clearly discernible. As were the strong arms and hands clutching the handlebars, muscular thighs gripping the vehicle and a remarkable backside on the seat. The sight had sparked an exquisite thrill in his veins and stirred up his playful streak. _Why has it affected me so much?_ he wondered. The answer presented itself readily enough. _Well, you probably just need to get laid, Mycroft_. So he had slowed down a bit, intent on not losing the motorcyclist again.

  
  


  
  


Greg couldn't help the wide grin that spread across his face when he crested the hilltop and saw the fabulous dark-green Jag ahead of him again. _Gotcha, you posh bastard!_ He revved up the engine of his bike and headed downhill after his prey.

And what a glorious prey it was! The morning sun gleamed alluringly on the luscious shiny finish of the elegant car. _British racing green_. When the convertible had overtaken him not long ago, Greg's jaw had literally dropped. _Cor, blimey! Look at that! Stunning!_ But it was the flash of ginger in the driver's seat that had truly set his blood on fire. Lit up by the sunlight in gorgeous hues of orange and red, a flaming beacon. And Greg had been following it ever since, helpless in its wake like an enchanted moth. 

Yeah, it was true, he had a thing for redheads, of either gender. And he'd be damned if he'd let this one slip away without at least trying to get to know him. (He was pretty sure it was a 'he'.) So he had sped up and chased after him.

He had closed the gap easily, the sports car had not been as far ahead as it could have been. An electric jolt had shot through Greg at the realisation. _He's waiting for me! He noticed me. Wants me to catch up! Jesus!_ His mouth had gone dry instantly, his blood rushed downwards. It had spurred him on, his bike roaring to life like a predator animal. When he had swept past the dark-green beauty and its even more eye-catching driver, he had risked a sideways glance. Yes, definitely a bloke. And young, around his own age or even younger. _Christ, he's dishy_.

That had been their game then. Catch me if you can. Chasing each other on the otherwise rather deserted country lanes, trading places every so often. Predator and prey. Greg was intoxicated with the thrill of the pursuit, blood rushing in his ears, wind whipping around him, the bike's powerful roar thrumming between his thighs. And if he was imagining it was the hot body of that redhead wriggling underneath him, then so what?

Over rolling hills they went, along verdant pastures and meadows covered with cow parsley and buttercup, on narrow lanes lined with hedgerows, even over a small rickety bridge once which the Jaguar took surprisingly swiftly. It didn't matter where they were going, it wasn't a race either. This wasn't about getting somewhere. All that mattered was the chase itself, catching and being caught, acknowledging each other in a strange kind of courtship dance. Greg could easily do this all day long. The clear blue sky above them tempted him to be carefree and reckless. Their only witnesses were the birds in the hedges and the occasional flock of sheep or cattle looking up in confusion or indignation.

Each time they passed one another, Greg took the opportunity to stare, and each time he discovered more. Waves of coppery hair were ruffled by the wind, abso- _fucking_ -lutely gorgeous. Greg yearned to run his hands through it, feeling how soft it was, ruffling it even more. Mister Gorgeous had chosen to combine his flaming hair with dark sunglasses that reflected the sunlight and an expensive-looking green jumper, the colour matching the car. _Of course it does. Is that Ralph Lauren?_ Greg wondered briefly.

The next time it was his turn to play the prey, he noticed the elbow of a slender arm resting casually on the door, an elegant long-fingered hand tapping on the wheel. _Fuck me! The bloke's so posh it hurts. Possibly the bored younger son of some Lord Soddington of Wanker's Hall, spoilt rotten and with no responsibility in the whole wide world. But boy! – he seems to be worth it._

For a short moment he thought guiltily of Auntie May who would expect him to show up at her place soon. _She'll understand,_ he assured himself, _prob'ly gonna ask me all about it later._

And as he started downhill to get to the Jag once again, Greg decided to look it up in his legal textbooks. It was certainly illegal to look so _bloody_ adorable and befuddle the law enforcement authorities, in this case in the form of green Constable Greg Lestrade. There had to be a valid cause for him to apprehend Posh Boy – personally.

  
  


  
  


Seeing the motorcycle approach from behind again made Mycroft's heart speed up with excitement. He could practically feel the gaze on him like a hot breath on his neck. Predatory, longing, hungry. Mycroft moaned quietly. Was he just imagining things? Had his sex-deprived body flooded his brain with hormones that were letting him see something that wasn't there? Maybe the stranger was just enraptured with the Jaguar and not interested in the driver at all? It wouldn't be unheard of. 

But no. No, this was real. Mycroft hadn't been sure at first, but then he had left the main road and veered into a narrower lane where nobody had any sensible reason to go on a Saturday morning. And the motorcyclist had followed him without hesitation. Dark eyes above the edge of the bandanna had lingered appreciatively on Mycroft himself and not just the car. _Yes! This is about us. You and me, alone on a country road. No other living soul far or wide._ He suppressed the urge to squirm in his seat.

Now the motorcycle was filling his rear view mirror. Mycroft could almost make out the man's features under the helmet. Almost. Was that a grin directed at him? _Gosh! You haven't even seen his face properly yet. His stature and clothing style indicate a young man in his prime, sure, but what if you’re mistaken? What if he's old and ugly... And here you are fantasising about him filling you up like the image growing in the mirror..._

And then he pulled up alongside the car. The man in the black leather jacket adjusted his speed so that they both were driving side by side. Mycroft could barely breathe. He cautiously turned his head sideways and was met with magnificent laughing eyes from a few feet away, the crinkles at the corners and the shape of the cheeks indicating a dazzling smile. Some strands of black or brown hair peeked out from under the helmet, effecting a wild and roguish look. _Oh! Young, early twenties. And far from ugly. God help me!_ Mycroft forced air into his lungs, quickly looking ahead again. _Too much. Sparkling dark eyes, glittering with mischief, and in all likelihood a smile to light the world. Hnnngh... What am I to do now?_

With his left hand he reached up and tried to smooth back his tousled hair, an attempt to gain control again, even in a small measure. Surely the other man must be able to hear his frantic heartbeat. Mycroft let a small answering smile curl his lips and pushed his sunglasses up into his hair, revealing a tad more of himself. Another sideways glance. Yes, the handsome rogue was still there, just an arm's length to his right. If he felt so inclined he would be able to reach out and touch the leather sleeve – and the firm biceps inside it.

As if he had read his thoughts, the stranger winked at Mycroft impishly and sped ahead, granting him an extensive view of his delectable physique. _Broad solid back, toned denim-clad legs. I wonder what it would feel like if he wrapped them around me, sans the denim of course, instead of straddling... Wait, what's he doing now?_

The fiendish rider let his motorised mount sway from side to side just in front of Mycroft's car, showcasing the deft movements of his firm buttocks as he shifted his weight. Mycroft moaned with barely contained lust. _That's... positively unfair._ His trousers were beginning to grow tight, his vision blurred at the edges.

Their path was leading them through a patch of wood, the foliage overhead creating a dappled pattern of light and shade on the ground, shifting constantly. Suddenly the motorcycle veered off sharply to the right as something small and furry shot across the road.

Instinctively, Mycroft hit the brakes hard and yanked the Jaguar to the left. The front left wheel lost its grip on the road, veering off the tarmac and ploughing into the soft, damp forest ground. Despite Mycroft's foot on the brake, the momentum propelled the decelerating car further, and it slid down into a shallow slope before stopping abruptly with both front wheels off the carriageway. Although they had been travelling quite slowly, Mycroft's body was jerked forward with the impact, an involuntary “Ooof!” escaped him as the seat belt restrained him.

 _“Bugger!"_ Mycroft swore under his breath. Out of habit, his hand fumbled for the key blindly and switched off the ignition as he allowed his forehead to rest on the steering wheel for a moment, recovering and moaning in exasperation. _Oh God! What now?_

 


	2. Push

_Fucking hell!_ Greg slammed his brakes on and dismounted as quickly as he could. Pushing the kickstand down into the verge, he feverishly ripped off his helmet, and left it hanging on the handlebars. He darted over to where the convertible had buried its front wheels into the muddy ground, yanking down his bandanna as he ran. _Goddammit! That was all my fault! Oh please, don't let him be hurt!_

The driver lay slumped over the wheel and was groaning softly. _At least he's conscious, thank God._

“Hey,” Greg called, “yer hurt, mate?”

Mycroft slowly lifted his head and looked up, blinking and confused. Was that a spirit of the woods scrutinising him? A mythical being from old folk tales? A faerie or a Greek faun, intent on seducing guileless travellers? In fact no, it was the insanely attractive motorcyclist standing next to his car, leaning in, the most desirable man Mycroft had seen in a long time.

 _Brown... his hair's brown... and spiky. That's... charming._ A giggle formed in Mycroft’s stomach but didn’t quite make it to the surface. He blinked again. _And his eyes... sweet Lord... even darker... how's that possible... so warm... concerned..._ No-one he knew had such lovely eyes, like liquid chocolate. Soft and sweet, welcoming, warm like a well-loved comforting blanket, promising a world of tenderness and care. _Wait, he asked you a question, didn't he? Something about being hurt._ Mycroft cleared his throat. “No,” he answered in a heavy voice, “I don't think so.”

“Yer sure?” Greg eyed him with worry. Close up, the redhead looked even more adorable. Pale from shock and the hair gloriously dishevelled. Here in the shady grove it shimmered rather auburn with ginger highlights, like glowing embers. His cheeks and forehead were sprinkled with freckles to match. And his eyes – a bright sky blue with just a hint of grey. With the dazed look in his eyes and the sunglasses askew in a bed of wavy hair, Greg could see how bloody young he actually was, vulnerable and... kinda cute. _Does he have any idea how fucking gorgeous he is?_ Greg put his hand lightly on the man's shoulder.

The gentle touch helped Mycroft to dispel the wisps of dizziness, and he sat up straight again. “Quite,” he said dismissively with a small self-conscious smile, “it's merely a minor... bump.” He took the sunglasses from his head and smoothed down his hair, “nothing to concern yourself with.” And belatedly, a slightly sheepish “... but thank you.”

“Alright. If you're certain you're okay.” Reluctantly, Greg straightened up and let his hand drop from the woolly fabric. _That's_ _soft, must be cashmere._ “So, what say, lemme do a quick check and then we're gonna try an' put this beast of beauty back to where she belongs, eh?”

“That would be most accommodating of you.” Mycroft looked at the other man with gratitude. He was not alone in this predicament, the handsome imp would help him.

The imp in question set about inspecting the car for signs of damage, even going so far as to drop down on the forest ground to have a look at the underside, totally unfazed by the prospect of getting his clothes covered in mud.

“Right,” he said when he resurfaced again. “Seems to be okay, no harm done.” He brushed off some leaves and mud from his jeans and continued to explain. “'ere’s what we do then. You put it in reverse gear. And I'm gonna push you back up onto the road. Go easy on the gas and we might have 'er outta this mess in no time.” With a decisive movement he unzipped his leather jacket and stripped it off, tossing it onto the ground under a tree.

Mycroft's eyes grew wide, suddenly fully alert. He watched with rapt fascination as a sleeveless black “The Clash” t-shirt and well-muscled upper arms were revealed. The blood-red bandanna coiled around the imp's neck like a demon's pet serpent. Deductions began to flood in. _London or Estuary, to go from the accent. Strong. And handsome.Tanned skin. Out-of-doors a lot. Remarkably handsome, actually. Good people skills, too. Quick thinker, adaptable, unperturbed by unforeseen calamities. Likes to put things right again. Did I mention exceptionally handsome? Works in a distinctly hierarchical structure. But not military. Too roguish for that, and not with that hairstyle. Police then. Yes that sounds right._ His wonderful mouth-wateringly attractive rogue was a policeman. Was it possible that such a wondrous specimen of masculinity was single? Or interested in other men, in the first place?

Greg positioned himself in front of the car and put his hands onto the bonnet. “Ready, mate?” he prompted. People kept telling him that his smile was irresistible, and Posh Boy could surely use some cheering up. It wasn't hard to do either. Something about the guy made Greg want to make him happy. And if his instinct was worth its salt, there were some interesting options here, happiness-wise.

Although Greg had heard only a few words from the man's mouth, his voice was incredible. Smooth, cultivated, silky. Like he sipped on champagne for a living. It sent a spike of arousal down Greg's spine. _Can't wait to hear yer whisper my name and moan in my ear._

The redhead nodded. “I'm ready.” And the car engine awoke again with a deep growl.

“Good. Now backwards, nice and easy.”

As soon as the wheels started to turn, Greg braced himself and put his weight into pushing the Jaguar up and backwards out of the dip. His biceps and back muscles strained, his knees threatened to buckle.

From behind the wheel, Mycroft enjoyed a prime seat watching the power struggle of car plus imp versus gravity and mud. While his foot gingerly worked the pedal, his eyes never left the play of muscles, so readily displayed for his perusal. _Admirable._ Mycroft's mind got a bit woozy again, unconsciously he licked his lips. The man had smiled at him as if this were the most enjoyable pastime and Mycroft the most pleasant company he could think of. The rough voice occasionally grunting “C'mon, a bit more!” or “Yeah, just like that!” didn't help him to keep hiscontrol either. Mycroft moaned inwardly. _Hnnngh..._ Seeing the delectable imp move with such... fervour and confidence was definitely worth getting stuck in the first place.

The car, however, did not move much. Once or twice, Greg thought he had gained a couple of inches, only to feel his sweaty palms lose their grip and slip over the British racing green surface and then see the car slide back down again into the soft ground. The front wheels whirled up clumps of mud and small twigs and half-rotten leaves that splattered against his jeans. _Sod this!_ he thought. If anything, they had dug in even deeper.

“It's useless,” Greg proclaimed after a few futile attempts, panting and sweating. “It won't work this way.” He ran both hands through his hair and huffed in frustration. Propping himself on both forearms, he leaned over the bonnet trying to catch his breath and hung his head.

Mycroft took the car out of gear, turned off the ignition again and got out of the vehicle in a lithe movement. While his hands smoothed down his jumper, he joined the strapping panting man practically splayed over the long snout of his car. His own breath caught for completely different reasons. Muscular bronzed arms contrasted against the green varnished surface, the t-shirt (a little damp with sweat in places) was tight enough to leave no doubt that the torso was in equally good shape. And the jeans accentuated a firm bottom, presented in the most inviting manner. Mycroft felt a heat wave colouring his cheeks and tried fervently to silent his thundering heart.

“May I propose a different approach?” he said, breathless.

The man who was temptation incarnate turned his head and looked up at him.

 _Christ, he's a giraffe!_ Greg thought when he sensed the Jaguar driver sliding up to him. All long lean limbs in graceful motion. _Oh God! Fuck me, he's tall!_ And then the redhead was directly in front of him, speaking in that incredible smooth voice and looking flustered. Pink spots had appeared on his striking cheekbones and his eyes were wide and wild. A stormy blue-grey that pierced right to Greg's soul, contrasting with the warm glow in his hair and the creamy freckled skin. _He's... beautiful._ Greg swallowed. “Yeah, sure,” he gasped.

“If we coordinate our efforts,” Gorgeous Giraffe intoned breezily, “we might be able to set up a synchronised rhythmic motion which will in turn facilitate a displacement towards firmer grounds.”

 _'Make her rock back and forth and then push her up to the road'_ Greg translated in his mind. Jesus, the bloke had a way with words. He nodded. “Okay. Sounds like a plan.” Better not think too much about 'synchronised rhythmic motions' now.

Whilst the larger part of Mycroft's brain was busy memorising every detail about the dark temptation before him, his mouth continued on auto-pilot effortlessly. “I surmise that if we both combine a thrusting movement in a precisely timed manner, we will be able to push it back onto the road, do you agree? As a matter of course, we had better take precautions to prevent a detrimental turn of effects that would foil any achievements that we might be able to procure.”

Greg grinned. Did the bloke listen to himself at all? “What'd you suggest?” he asked, still grinning, as he straightened up slowly and turned fully to face the tall man... who seemed to have walked straight out of one of his fantasies.

 _Oh Gods above!_ Mycroft swallowed hard. _That grin! That should fall under the Geneva convention._

“A couple of sturdy branches to bar the front wheels from slipping down again. I'm sure we can find something suitable in the forest...”

“Good idea, mate,” Greg agreed good-naturedly. “I'll go looking.” And off he went to search the ground on the other side of the road.

Mycroft, for his part, crouched down near the wheel to examine the situation on his own, formulating a plan of action in his mind. Before long his companion returned, carrying some thick branches.

“Excellent!” Mycroft said, rising again swiftly. He took one of the branches from the other man's arms. “You found some perfect specimens... These will fulfil the task superbly.” And he hunkered down again and placed the log down in front of the wheel.

Greg went round the car and did the same on the other side. From across the bonnet, he asked, “So we're ready to give it a try, then?”

As the two of them were about to set their plan in action, the handsome imp gestured at Mycroft's jumper. “Better take that off,” he suggested, “would be a shame to ruin it.”

“Certainly. Thank you.” Mycroft turned away a bit, suddenly self-conscious, as he pulled his jumper over his head, trying to hide his less-than-attractive stomach region. _Oh God! He's going to see... everything._ Feeling chocolate-brown eyes scooping up his every movement, he folded the jumper carefully and went over to put it onto the passenger seat. Leaning in a bit more, he opened the glove box and retrieved his pair of tan suede gloves.

Greg let out a weird sound, covering it quickly as a cough. _This bloke's gonna kill me!_ With the jumper gone, a tight-fitting white shirt and tailored cream-coloured trousers had been revealed, doing a marvellous job of showing off Posh Boy's slim figure. _God, help me!_ Greg gasped. It was impossible not to stare. Granted, the redhead might be a bit soft around the middle, but he moved his long limbs with natural elegance and verve. Like a dancer, or a fencer. And when he leaned into the car to store the jumper – _that arse!_

Everything about him screamed at Greg. _Look at me! Grab me! Have me!_ Greg had rarely been so smitten with someone. And then... _Jesus fucking Christ..._ Mr. Sex-on-Legs unbuttoned his cuffs and began to roll up his sleeves. His gaze apparently fixed on his long fingers working slowly, meticulously, he strolled towards Greg again with a sultry pace. There was a small smile on his lips, equally shy and slightly coy, and that gaze through the auburn lashes – _God! He knows_ exactly _what he does to me with that. And look at those freckles! Damn you, posh bastard!_

Greg's mouth went dry, mesmerised by deftly moving hands that revealed another few inches of freckled skin with every turn. All he wanted to do was sink to his knees and worship that red-haired lean demi-god that had stepped into his life with everything he had. How he'd love to stroke the fiery strands, caress the high cheekbones, count all the freckles with his tongue and kiss the man until he all knew was Greg's name. (Which he didn't even know yet.)

And then the still nameless demi-god was at his side again, smirking slightly and gracefully slipping his beautiful hands into the gloves. “Shall we?”

Not daring to speak, Greg nodded mutely. So close. The smell of the man's cologne, a slight undertone of sweat from the warm June morning, the crisp shirt clinging to his slender body, the piercing eyes, the gorgeous hair – and the freckles all over. _I'm not gonna survive this,_ he moaned silently.

Unable to think straight, Greg was more than happy to let Posh Boy take the lead now. They quickly agreed to go for a “three swings and then a push” pattern. “On three, then!” said Greg.

Mycroft was pleasantly surprised how easily they slipped into working together. “And one – and two – and three –” his angel of dark delights counted with clenched teeth as they forced the Jaguar into a rocking motion, “– aaaand push!” Muscles in arms and backs and legs strained, and the car actually deigned to jolt backwards. “Quick now!” the young policeman wheezed, putting all his strength into keeping it there. Mycroft hurried to one wheel and swiftly rolled the log backwards with the tip of his Italian leather shoe to block it. Over to the other side, feeling the dark brown eyes following him all the time. When the second log was in position securing the car, he said, “You might let go now.”

Cautiously, the man did so and his face lit up when the blockade held. “Yeah, that's it, baby!”

 _'Baby'?_ Mycroft's eyes grew big with astonishment. _Oh, he means the car, definitely._

And then their eyes met over the bonnet, and his world stopped turning. Or was it spinning too fast for him to keep track? The man in black was... truly scrumptious. Beaming at him with joy and excitement, radiant. His dark chestnut hair a wild mess of spikes, his face flushed from exertion, covered with a little sheen of sweat. His eyes were unfathomable pools of delight that dragged Mycroft in, impossible to say what was iris and what was pupil. _How can they be so dark and so shining at the same time?_ Passionate, enthusiastic and yearning for something that made Mycroft feel hot all over. So young, so full of life. Luring him to a realm of pleasures he barely acknowledged he knew about, let alone wanted to experience. _This could be my heaven or my hell,_ he thought heatedly, _or both. And frankly, I don't care which one._

Mycroft bit on his bottom lip to suppress his arousal. He couldn't go down that lane now – at least, not yet. They had to salvage a car first. So he sauntered over to his delighted and delightful... whatever he might be, attempting to hide his burgeoning erection with his hands. “Shall we go for the next round?” he drawled.

It took them four more turns to push the Jaguar back far enough. The process included some quite muffled curses from Greg's side and subdued groans from Mycroft's. There were secret and not-so-secret glances, shy smiles and wild grins. Whilst Mycroft surreptitiously eyed muscles working under tanned skin, Greg enjoyed the sight of long legs moving swiftly around the car.

To his delight, Greg discovered a hidden strength in the male body working beside him. Whilst he definitely wasn't as muscled as Greg himself, he wasn't a weakling either. _Don’t s’pose he could lift a large telly,_ he thought almost fondly, _but bet he could run for miles with those legs...wouldn’t even break a sweat, the smooth posh bastard!_

When finally the front right wheel was back on the tarmac again, Greg howled triumphantly. “Woo-hoo! Nearly done, pretty thing!” He leaned his palms on the smooth surface of British racing green, heaving for air. “Will be easier now,” he panted, “one last firm push, and we're out of the wood.” He straightened up and wiped his forehead with his bandanna.

When he looked round at the gorgeous man at his side he almost regretted it. _Holy shit!_ If anything the physical exertion had made him even more desirable, the bloke was a hot mess. A wayward curl of flaming sunset had fallen onto his forehead, his cheeks glowed in deep pink. The bright eyes agleam in the summer sun, his lips moist and slightly parted as he caught his breath. With the top shirt button undone, the open collar invited Greg's gaze to that dip at the bottom of his throat emphasising the length of his pale freckled neck and revealing a tuft of coppery chest hair. _How far down do these freckles go?_

Mycroft had blushed fiercely at the 'pretty thing'. _It's nothing,_ he reminded himself sternly, _he means nothing by it. Just a figure of speech. Or he was talking to the car, you dolt!_ “Let's finish this then.” he agreed.

One last effort, one last flexing of aching protesting muscles, and the sports car was actually back in its element, all four wheels safely on terra firma again. Mycroft stumbled a few steps but was able to keep his balance. His companion was not so lucky; he lurched forward with his final push and found himself on hands and knees on the damp ground. It did nothing to dampen his exuberant mood, though. “Yeah! We made it!!“ he exclaimed and sat back onto his haunches, his hands on his knees and his pert arse pressing against the heels of his biking boots.

 _Heavens help me!_ Mycroft felt his blood rush downwards at the sight of the dark-clad figure kneeling before him and displaying his delicious behind in a clearly provoking manner. _Can't let him go. Not now, not ever._ His head was spinning with a myriad of unformed thoughts as his unsteady legs led him around the man who was now looking up at him with a smile like a summer sunrise.

It ignited Mycroft's blood, his heart thundering in his ribcage as if it wanted to break free. His throat constricted, suddenly he wasn't sure if he would ever be able to speak again. Mycroft Holmes, erudite and eloquent, reduced to a slobbering tongue-tied dimwit. Wordlessly, he extended a hand to help his fallen angel up.


	3. Pull

Greg's gaze wandered from the gloved hand held out to him, up the slender arm towards the flushed face. Gorgeous Giraffe, all lean elegant lines, loomed in front of him like a Greek statue, with a curious smile and pupils as wide as saucers, offering to pull him up and close. _Blimey!_ Greg thought feverishly. _Yeah! Let him do just that._ He grabbed the slim long-fingered hand in his own broader one, firmly but not squeezing. _Or I could pull him down to me_ , his naughty inner voice supplied, _turn him over and snog him senseless._

Suddenly he found himself eye to eye with the beautiful stranger, with just a few inches between them. Greg let out a small startled laugh, having been caught off-guard by the unexpectedly forceful move. “Whoa! Yer... eh... right...”

His eyes roamed over the gloriously dishevelled man in front of him. And what he saw made his blood roar in his ears. There was desire burning brightly in the gorgeous steel blue eyes, a kind of desperate longing. _He wants it!!! As much as I do!_ Greg's own fire erupted, blazed through his veins, lit up his entire being. It must be showing on his face. He couldn’t and wouldn’t hold back any longer. His gaze flickered suggestively to the pink lips, there couldn't be any doubt about his intent. _Now! This is it,_ he thought drunk on their proximity, _this is when I grab his face..._

Mycroft gasped loudly at the gaze directed at him. This was... overwhelming... staggering... Never before had anybody looked at him like _that_. He had been thinking he knew a thing about sexual interest but the dark fire in his rogue's eyes burned that certainty to the ground in a heartbeat.

The men he had hooked up with at Oxford, they weren't like that at all. With them it had been kind of a parlour game, a dance with well-rehearsed steps, executed nonchalantly with a knowing smirk. There had been veiled glances, lingering light touches and whispered innuendos over the rims of glasses filled with expensive drinks. And Mycroft prided himself to have achieved mastery in this particular dance.

But _this_ – this was something completely different! There was no refinement here, no secret choreography, no subtlety. This was a firestorm – raw and feral and unrestrained. It burned away the oxygen from his lungs and shook him to the core. Rarely had he dared to dream that someone would ever look at him with such... unmasked... sensual... naked... want. The deep glow in the fathomless brown eyes, so open, so unashamed, baring primeval needs and a soul's most profound vulnerability. The enormity of what was asked and what was offered swept Mycroft off his feet. _I can't do this! I don't know how._ He was not on a dance floor here, he was in the epicentre of an earthquake. And as the tremor took hold of his body, he knew he would not get out of this unscarred.

When Greg noticed the flicker of anxiety or even panic dash across the redhead's face, he faltered. His left hand, on its way to cup a freckled cheek, stopped mid-air and diverted to his own neck, embarrassed. _No! Not like this._ He let go of the gloved hand that had pulled him up and took half a step back. _He's not ready!_ his brain screamed at him, _can't yer see? He's practically shakin'._

Rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, he breathed in deeply, fighting the icy fist that clenched his heart. His gaze dropped to where his dirty boots stood across from soiled fine leather loafers and then drifted sideways and down the road. He swallowed, twice. _Came on to 'im too strong. Too much, too fast._

“Er... right... I'd better...” Greg croaked as he shot a last brief glance at the wide-eyed frozen bloke facing him and then he turned away. With heavy steps he started to walk over to the tree where he had dropped his jacket, his mind whirling in turmoil.

Oh, he was sure that if he'd push matters like they'd pushed the Jag, he could probably cajole the man to go for a quickie over the bonnet, never to see each other again. Wouldn't take much seduction either, he figured. His index finger absent-mindedly fumbled for the condom in the coin pocket of his jeans. But that wasn't what he wanted. Not all of it, at least. There was the chance for something better here for them, something more and _deeper_. And he wanted all of it.

 _Alright, baby,_ Greg thought as he picked up his leather jacket from the ground, _we'll go at your pace. If you need slow, then that's what we'll do._ He searched the jacket pockets for his fags. _Not gonna hurt yer, gorgeous. Please..._ Slinging the jacket over his shoulder, he paused for some moments to calm himself, breathing deeply, his back turned squarely towards the car. _Just give 'im some space and time to come around. Don't push, don't scare 'im away._

Mycroft watched the handsome stranger retreat, aghast at what he had done. _No! Don't!_ All the rakish carefreeness had vanished, the cheeriness blown away. That crestfallen look in the deep brown eyes just before he had turned away had cut through Mycroft's heart and sent him into another frenzied tumble of sentiment. _You hurt him! He thinks you rejected him! All your failure, yours alone. Because you're such a despicable coward, Holmes!_ Mycroft wanted to call out to the man, to run after him. But he found his feet rooted to the spot and words did not come.

Any second now the magnificent motorcyclist, his imp, his angel would mount his vehicle and drive off. And Mycroft would never see him again, never again see the chocolate eyes laughing at him or gazing at him with heavy glowing intent, never see that dazzling smile again or hear him swear in that dark rough voice. _No! Please, no!_ An undignified yelp of pain emerged from his chest, and Mycroft quickly bit on his lower lip to throttle it. _That can't be. Must set it right. Quickly! Before he leaves for good._ His knees grew uncontrollably wobbly, and he stumbled towards the driver's side of the car for support lest he collapse ungracefully into the mud. _Don't go, don't go, don't go!_

“Wait...” a strange pathetic voice Mycroft didn't recognise called to the man with the slumped shoulders standing under a tree.

Hearing the short meek word from behind his back made Greg turn his head. He half-expected to see Posh Boy seated in his dark green fortress, ready to bolt at his slightest move. Instead, the man was leaning against the car wing, his long legs stretched out. Biting his lip nervously, he looked at Greg like a deer in the headlights.

Greg ventured a tentative smile. _Nothing to fear here, baby. It's just me, see?_ And when he saw the redhead answer with a smile of his own, a slow shy thing that curled his lips endearingly, Greg's heart jumped with joy. _Yeah! We're getting somewhere here._ He turned around completely and let his affection bloom on his face.

The beautiful tall guy in shirtsleeves seemed to relax further, his smile grew deeper. _Bet he doesn't show it often,_ Greg thought with something like a possessive pride, _or to many people. Jesus, I could fall in love with that smile._

And very, very slowly, he started to walk back towards the endearing smile and the steel blue eyes that were looking less frightened by the second. Trying to appear as open and unthreatening as he could, Greg shoved his free hand in his jeans pocket, carefully trying to detect any sign of unease in the subject of his future dreams. There was none. _He's gonna stay,_ Greg’s inner voice cheered _, not scurry away like a hunted animal._

On the contrary, there was a twinkle of sudden mischief, and Greg stopped in his tracks when Gorgeous Giraffe turned his gaze to his gloves and began to peel them off. Excruciatingly slowly, plucking at one long finger after the other, baring perfect pale hands. A jolt of fresh arousal rushed through Greg's body and he had to stifle a deep-throated moan. _Could fall in love with those hands, too. Oh, you smug bastard!_

When the gloves were finally off, their owner dropped them behind him onto the driver's seat without looking. His eyes were trained solely on Greg, assessing the effect he had on him, the smile turning from shy to seductive. _Come hither!_ it said. And Greg did, not so cautious any more, rather strolling casually.

When they were just a feet apart, he stopped and pulled his hand out of his pocket. “Fancy one?” he asked with a grin, holding out the packet of fags.

“Thank you,” mumbled Mycroft as he gingerly picked a cigarette. The angel with a devil's grin shook out a second one for himself and began patting all his pockets for matches. Mycroft suavely produced his lighter from his trouser pocket and flipped it open. “May I...?”

When the handsome stranger brought his mouth to the flame to light his cigarette, his hand came to rest lightly on the one holding the lighter for him. No power in Heaven or Earth could have prevented Mycroft's hand from trembling at the gentle contact. He nearly dropped his cigarette as the other man nodded his thanks and looked up at him with smouldering eyes. It might have been that the imp was shivering slightly as well.

Mycroft lit his own cigarette a lot more clumsily than he usually did and took the first drag, deeply, to calm his nerves. Tilting his head, he moved a tad sideways, quietly inviting the dark Adonis to join him. The invitation was understood and accepted momentarily, and they both leaned against the car's wing, stretching their legs and savouring their first few drags without a word.

Feeling the brown gaze upon him, Mycroft exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl in the air. He dropped the hand that held the cigarette to his side and dared to let his eyes wander on their own. _He's here. He's right here. Beside me. Just a few inches... obviously wants to stay, spend more time with me._ Taking in the mud-splattered boots, the dirtied jeans with damp patches, onto that ... and further up the dishevelled t-shirt, the crumpled bandanna and finally... the man's face framed by ruffled hair and who was scrutinising him expectantly. A long forceful trail of smoke, a quick dip of the cigarette to flick off ash, then the man turned his glance away and looked straight ahead again. He was waiting.

 _It's now or never,_ Mycroft thought, valiantly fighting the rising panic, _time to be bold, Mycroft!_

“I...” he began hoarsely, frantically searching for the right words, “I am... deeply indebted to you... for your... assistance...” He was rewarded with the imp's full attention who smiled at him encouragingly. And on a whim, feeling lightheaded and inexplicably bold, Mycroft added slyly, “... Constable.”

“What! How d'yer...?” The dark eyes grew wide with surprise, instead of the annoyance Mycroft was used to seeing the man laughed at him with delight.

“Deduced it,” admitted Mycroft smugly in a low voice, “it was fairly obvious, actually.”

The young police officer laughed again. “Boy! You're somethin'!” His hand gestured at Mycroft. “Effin' brilliant, I'd say! Could use someone like you on the force.” There was a twinkle in the brown eyes, and a hand running through already tousled hair. “PC Greg Lestrade, Metropolitan Police. At your service.”

 _Greg. Gregory. From the Latin word 'gregorius',_ Mycroft's brain filled in, _Meaning 'watchful, vigilant'. An exceedingly apt name for an officer of the law._ And then he realised how rude he was not offering his own name in exchange.

“M- M- Mycroft,” he stammered, appalled at his faux pas, “Mycroft Holmes. Pleased to meet you.”

“As am I,” Greg replied amicably. His heart sang, loud and jubilant. _Gotcha!_ They were trading names! Posh Boy – _Mycroft!_ – was interested in more. Not just two anonymous strangers. His eyes glided over Mycroft's body from head to toe, and back again. “So... _Mycroft_.” he tasted the unusual name, rolling it over his tongue like wine. “Suits you.”

Mycroft raised an enquiring eyebrow, an expression that nearly made Greg laugh again. “Just look at you! Classy, brilliant, gorgeous. In a word, stunning. Every inch a Mycroft! Not a smidgeon of Tom, Dick or Harry around.”

And Mycroft laughed, really laughed. It started as a childlike chortle but soon he tipped his head backwards, showing more of his beautiful neck, and laughed happily and unrestrained. Greg liked that sound at once. _Could fall in love with that, too, baby. Would like to be the one to make you laugh!_

“You're... ridiculous... Gregory,” Mycroft gasped when the laughter had died down to giggles.

“Yep.” Greg confirmed, nodding seriously, “It's my second name. Gregory Ridiculous Lestrade.” Which made Mycroft almost start again. “Do _you_ have a second name, Mycroft?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Even a third.”

“Of course you do.” Greg let the moment expand a bit, searching to grab the blue eyes again with his own. “Here's hoping I'm gonna learn them, one day.” He took a long drag from his cigarette, letting the meaning sink in. _This can be serious, long term. If you want me. As long as you want me._ And Mycroft's delighted gasp told him that it might be reciprocal.

For a minute or two, they both contented themselves with smoking in silence, their laughter not far beneath the surface ready to erupt any time. When their eyes met, and they met often, Greg could see his own joy and excitement reflected back at him. Mycroft, his Mycroft, glowed with quiet happiness.

The moment was right, Greg felt it, to go a step further. If that delectable man wanted to be wooed properly, well, that was something Greg Lestrade could do.

“ **Listen... you and me...”** he began, “...we're good together, aren't we?” He took a breath. “I mean... a good team. With the car... and stuff...”

“We are indeed,” Mycroft conceded, secretly pleased.

His heartbeat picked up in a drum roll. _He's going to ask me out... on a... date._ Mycroft turned his whole attention to his policeman, holding his breath and shivering with anticipation. His cheeks must be flaming red and his eyes as wide as barn doors.

“Well,” Gregory rubbed at his neck and looked away briefly. “I was wondering if you'd... like to go on a drink... or a coffee if that's more your thing. With me.”

A firework exploded silently in Mycroft's chest. A soppy smile crept up unto his face. “I'd love to. I really would. Gregory. Alas, I'm afraid, right now...”

Gregory laughed, partly relieved and partly amused. “Never mind. Couldn't go anywhere like this, now could I?” and he indicated his less than presentable appearance.

“You look wonderful,” Mycroft blurted out, “it would be my pleasure and my honour to accompany you wherever you like.” And after a moment's consideration, he said, “Unfortunately my parents expect me for dinner tonight. However,... Do you happen to know the little bakery and cafe in town? Next to the antique book shop on Station Road? They also serve on Sundays.” He hesitated for a moment, nonplussed at his own courage. “So if you're amenable? Tomorrow morning perhaps? Business is rather slow during church hours, we might have some... measure of privacy.”

“Can't say I do,“ Gregory admitted, “too posh for a bloke like me, prob'ly. But yeah! I'll be there. 10 am?”

“My pleasure,” Mycroft repeated. Looking deeply in the chocolate eyes once more.

Their conversation flowed easily after that. With Gregory as his partner, chatting seemed the most natural thing to do. The smoke from their cigarettes rose and twirled as the threads of their talk. Mycroft learned that the young policeman was going to train for a career as a detective. (“Not gonna mete out speedin' tickets for the rest of my life.”) With every titbit of personal information they shared, he could sense _something_ growing between them, a bond, a relationship. They weren't strangers anymore. It felt warm, comfortable.

And thus it was no surprise that Mycroft was telling his wonderfully ridiculous Gregory that his parents owned “... a modest dwelling a few miles east. I'm staying with them for a week during vacation.” He took a drag. “Next month will see me in Westminster for a placement.”

Greg looked at Mycroft curiously. “Lemme guess,” he smiled, “studying the law, are yer? Gonna be a barrister?” He let his eyes roam over Mycroft's long form suggestively. “Bet yer look fab in silk.” _It'd be a shame, though, to hide your hair under a wig,_ he added in his mind.

Mycroft blushed slightly at the compliment. Or was the idea of wearing silk giving him some thoughts? “No, not as such, “ he answered. “I'm a major in PPE at Oxford. With International Law and Contemporary History as secondary subjects.” Flicking off ash, he continued drily, “In my spare time I like to improve my proficiency in a number of foreign languages. You could say, it is a hobby of mine.”

Greg laughed at the matter-of-fact tone. From anybody else it would have sounded like bragging, but Mycroft was just stating hard facts. It was kind of endearing, actually. “Busy boy,” he commented, “and pretty smart, eh?”

The blush returned, as if Mycroft wasn't sure whether so much smartness was appreciated or not. Greg could see him make an effort to steer the conversation in a different direction. “And may I ask about you, Gregory? Are you local?”

“Nah, London born-and-bred, me. It's my Auntie May..” his gaze wandered upwards following a wisp of smoke, “... she runs a little plant nursery around here. Broke her ankle a few weeks ago. I drop in on my days off-duty to help 'er out. Runnin' errands, makin' deliveries, that kinda thing.” _Sorry Auntie,_ mumbled a guilty little voice in the back of Greg's mind, _m' runnin' late today. Just met the man of my life on the road._

He didn't mention that it also helped to get away from London, from Liddie. _Lyin' cheatin' bitch that she is! Sleepin' around with every bloke she can sink her claws into!_ Here in the country things seemed to be lighter, sunnier, friendlier. Easier to get over a break-up that still stung like hell.

“She's lucky to have such a... sweet nephew in her time of need,” Mycroft said conversationally, “Nursery you say? She might be acquainted with my parents then. Father is an avid gardener.”

“See?” grinned Greg. “Small world. We're meant to meet. Cosmical karma or something.” His fag was coming to an end, and he tried to make up his mind if he should go for something more physical with Mycr...

From the corner of his eye he saw that Mycroft was checking his watch discreetly. “You have to be somewhere?” he enquired, feeling slightly disappointed.

“Er... yes. I'm afraid so. I am to pick someone up at the train station in thirty-seven minutes.”

“Oh.” Greg couldn't help the pang in his chest. “Someone special?” he asked pointedly.

A soft smile bloomed on Mycroft's face, he seemed unaware of the change of mood. His gaze drifted away to a far-off place in his mind.

 _Will he ever smile like that thinking of me?_ Greg thought.

Mycroft sighed. “Special, indeed.” he said warmly with a hint of fond pride. “He's ... extraordinary. Bright and vivacious. Quite something, as you would call it. I’m worried about...“ A shadow crossed his face. “Well, we haven't seen each other since Christmas. And my b...” his voice trailed off poignantly as he got lost in memories.

 _Boyfriend!_ Greg's inner voice screamed, furious. _He's got a boyfriend! Fuck you, posh arse! Drivin' me crazy all the time. Preenin' like a peacock. Even agreed to go on a date with me. And – bam! – all of a sudden you remember yer taken?!_ He couldn‘t believe his ears. _Sod you! Worried your picky posh boyfriend would be peeved at yer lookin' like you've been rollin' in the rough for hours??? Well, serves you right, you arsehole!_ Greg was a heartbeat away from crushing the stub of his fag under his boot and storming off towards his bike.

The silky voice barely pierced the haze of red hot fury in Greg's head. “... seven years my junior. As you can –”

“ _What??!!”_ spat Greg and whirled round at him, his fists clenched. “Who?” His jacket dropped to the bonnet, unnoticed.

Mycroft jerked back at the murderous expression in Gregory's face. “My b- b- brother,” he stammered, his eyes wide and his heart hammering in alarm. “I just told you...” Whatever was the matter with Gregory?

“Your _brother_???” the dark angel shot at him, more of a demon now, ready to punch something. “You were – yer gonna pick up your brother?”

“Yes, of course.” Mycroft swallowed, completely at a loss faced with the onslaught of emotions he couldn't decipher. “Didn't I say so?”

“Your brother. Right.” Gregory threw up his hands with a hysterical half-laugh-half-cry. “Your little brother, who else could it be?” He began to pace angrily – no, furiously – back and forth in front of Mycroft who watched him in bewilderment. What had gone wrong suddenly? They had been talking amicably, flirting even, and now this?

When the adrenaline wore off, Gregory stopped and huffed loudly, running both hands through his hair forcefully. “You‘ll be the death of me, yer know that?” he proclaimed at last, shaking his head vigorously. “You and your baby brother.”

Mycroft waited to see if there would be more, some kind of explanation for this behaviour to make some sense he could comprehend. But none came. Eventually, Mycroft picked up the discarded leather jacket, ran a hand over it like a caress. With hesitant steps he moved over to the inexplicable mystery called Gregory Lestrade.

Greg stood on the tarmac halfway between the Jag and his bike, hanging his head. All energy had drained from him, he couldn’t stop the tremor that rattled his body all over now that the inferno of his anger was dying down. _Mycroft!_ How the fuck did he get into this mess? And why did he still put up with it?

A pair of leather loafers came into his view across his own boots. They‘d be ruined, certainly, wet as they were. And then something was wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak, the familiar heavy weight of his jacket. Two not-yet-familiar hands grasped his upper arms, holding him gently, steadying them both. Greg breathed deeply, his gaze still downwards, feeling the waves of tremor ebbing out.

“Gregory...” a smooth soft voice crooned near his ear. Two slender fingers glided under his chin.

Greg lifted his head slowly, and there he was. No more than a breath away. His Mycroft, his Posh Boy, his Gorgeous Giraffe. His. The soft tender look on his face was... amazing, unforgettable. Worth every heartquake. _Mine, all mine._ Greg closed his eyes, too drained to keep them open any longer.

The touch of Mycroft‘s lips on his was light, a mere brush. A taste, a question and a promise. Greg melted into it at once, letting his mouth give any answer Mycroft might need. A shiver ran down his spine at the warm softness, and he heard himself moan with delight. “Mycroft...” he mumbled when they parted all too soon, overcome with pleasure.

Then Mycroft‘s fingertips glided up to his cheek, his thumb caressed Greg‘s lower lip in a slow stroking sweep. “My angel,” he whispered longingly.

“Angel?” laughed Greg softy, opening his eyes again, “don‘t think anybody ever called me that.”

“I‘m not anybody.”

Greg let his own hand wander up over Mycroft's shoulder, brushing along the incredibly long neck, up into the copper red hair. “No, yer not.” And he pulled the redhead close for another kiss. A real one. One that would show Mycroft that Greg Lestrade meant business.

Mycroft's mind reeled as he felt Gregory's broad fingers in his hair, exploring, caressing, stoking up fires that had lain dormant for way too long. A wave of gooseflesh ran over his body, but before he could process that fully, his mouth was captured by Gregory's. Firm, demanding, claiming him. Burning hot as if all the fires of hell were breaking loose. _Yes! Yes, yes! Please!_ Mycroft surrendered, unresisting, willingly, gladly.

When Gregory's tongue licked at his bottom lip, urging gently, Mycroft let him in immediately. No restraints anymore, no barriers. The tongue in his mouth explored him expertly, swiftly. In some miraculous way it seemed to know instantly where to touch to make Mycroft see stars. Fireworks filled the space in his skull, there wasn't room for anything but... “Gr- Greg-”

The tongue retreated quickly, leaving him feeling bereft. There was a smile against his lips and then a rumble, “Yeah, 'tis my name. Glad ye remember.”

Mycroft found he needed those lips and that tongue more than he needed oxygen. Hungrily, he lunged out at what he desired with his own mouth. _More, more! Now!_ Hearing Gregory's delighted chuckle, he felt emboldened to seek entrance to the alluring cave of his imp's mouth. Gregory tasted of cigarettes and ham and cheese, an intoxicating blend that hammered 'Hot! Male! Fuck!' in Mycroft's mind.

The hand in his hair curled in arousal, fingernails grazing over his scalp. A strong hand landed on his waist just above his belt and pulled him closer. _Oh yes, yes! Gregory!! Make me yours, and I'll make you mine._ Both Mycroft's hands glided around Gregory's shoulders as he deepened the kiss once more. Wrapping himself around him, diving into him, all his senses were filled with the wonderful man in his arms.

Greg's heart cheered at Mycroft's enthusiasm. So eager, so responsive! _Christ, the guy knows how to kiss!_ Breaking away gently, he looked up. Mycroft had closed his eyes, looking blissed out at the touch of Greg's hands in his hair and at his waist, clinging to Greg's shoulders. Greg pressed his abdomen in a bit more nudging one of his legs between Mycroft's. They both gasped. Yeah, there was definitely interest there, on both their parts.

“You're incredible, you know that?” rumbled Greg as he brought his cheek next to Mycroft's. “Hottest bloke on Earth I'd say. Are you even real?”

“Very much so,” Mycroft replied breathlessly and thrusted his pelvis forward, “here's some hard evidence for you.”

“Cheeky!” Greg chuckled. “Incredible.” With a pleased hum, he let the hand at Mycroft's waist move around and upwards feeling the heated body beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. Mycroft's breath slivered as Greg's hand roamed over his torso, and when a broad thumb brushed over his nipple he cried out in a spike of lust.

“Sensitive, uhm?” Greg hummed, satisfied with the effect of his efforts.

“Qu- Quite,” whimpered Mycroft and bit his bottom lip.

“Gives me ideas... about what to do... with you. Soon... if I'll have my way.” _God! We have to stop this. Any moment now._

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to keep himself together. Gregory was doing things to him... _Have to cool down._

“What d'yer want me to do with you?” Gregory rumbled, “right now?” He rubbed his cheek against Mycroft's, there was a hint of stubble. _Hnngh... not helping..._

With a passion he hadn't known he was capable of, Mycroft grabbed Greg's face with both hands. “This!” he gasped and pressed his mouth onto Greg's for a final scorching clash. As they dove into it, two pairs of hands busied themselves trailing over shoulders, necks and backs. Greg's hand at the back of his head dug deep into the copper waves.

When they parted for air some time later, Greg leaned his forehead against Mycroft‘s. For long moments they stood like this, breathing the same air, easing down. United in their struggle to return to the world around them.

Long pale fingers stroked bare tanned arms possessively, the leather jacket once again dropped to the ground. Greg responded by running his one hand gently through Mycroft‘s hair and the other one across his back in long slow strokes downwards. And further down still, until it came to rest onto a firm bottom cheek. “You feel _fucking_ gorgeous, Mr. Holmes,” Greg mumbled as he squeezed lightly.

Mycroft laughed softly, blushing at the praise. He lifted his head and pressed it gently against Greg's temple, his arm around Greg's waist holding him close. “I can assure you the feeling is mutual, Constable Lestrade,” he whispered, his breath a hot breeze in Greg's ear.

Greg nuzzled happily against the crook of Mycroft's neck and drank in everything about his... his lover? The heady smell of his cologne, the silky timbre of his voice, the heat of his body so close, the taste of his glorious freckled neck at the tip of his own tongue. “Mmmm...” he hummed as he curled his fingers through sunset curls, “... as I said, gorgeous.”

Greg's mouth moved down, heading to the small dip above Mycroft's collarbone just barely accessible at the edge of his shirt collar. Mycroft moaned extensively as lips and teeth and tongue went to work to leave a visible reminder of their encounter. He could practically feel his skin bruising at the gentle biting and sucking. “Gre- Gregory... what are you...”

“Statin' a fact,” Greg breathed against the hot moist flesh, “lest you forget, baby.” Mycroft sighed happily.

After one last lascivious lick over pale skin admiring his work, Greg mumbled, “You should be goin' now, hmm?” His heart felt heavy at the dire prospect.

“I am afraid so,” replied Mycroft but didn't move to break their embrace. His lips brushed over Greg's temple in a tender good-bye.

Greg lifted his head, treating himself to another long glance into sky-blue pools. “Something tells me your brother isn't one to take kindly to being kept waiting,” he tried to lighten the mood.

“Sadly enough, yes,” replied Mycroft with an amused huff. He smoothed back a strand of Greg's hair. “Close your eyes for me, Gregory! Please.”

Greg obliged, holding his breath. Fingertips caressed his brow, then his cheeks and finally his lips.

“I shall be seeing you tomorrow,” purred Mycroft's voice, suddenly closer again.

“Can hardly wait. Gonna dream of you, beautiful.”

“I sincerely hope so. As shall I.” And Greg felt a light press of lips against his own again, delicate as a butterfly and gone in a heartbeat. “Good night, Gregory!”

His eyes still closed, Greg grinned. “Sweet dreams!” He did not open them as warm hands retreated and the air moved. Not wanting to break the spell of their last intimate moment. Too valuable was the sensation of Mycroft's last kiss to let go of it yet.

He didn't open his eyes either when he heard a car door open and close. Nor when the Jag's engine came to life again with a deep-pitched growl that eventually vanished into the distance.

Standing on a narrow road through the forest, eyes closed and smiling blissfully, Greg Lestrade knew that his every waking thought till the next morning would be filled with copper red, steel blue and British racing green.

[The End]


End file.
